The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte

Very…”
    “Edifying,” said Julia, without thinking. But Cifuentes seemed to find the adjective appropriate.
    “Yes, that’s it, edifying. As you can see, there are a number of younger men. That one over there, for example, is quite remarkable. He’s only nineteen but he’s already written a hundred-page study on the four lines of the Nimzo-Indian Defence.”
    “Really? Nimzo-Indian? It sounds very…” - Julia searched desperately for the right word - “definitive.”
    “Well, I don’t know about definitive,” Cifuentes replied honestly. “But it’s certainly significant.”
    Julia looked to Cesar for help, but he merely arched an eyebrow, as if expressing a polite interest in the conversation. He was leaning towards Cifuentes, his hands behind his back holding both stick and hat, apparently enjoying himself hugely.
    “Some years ago,” added Cifuentes, pointing at the top button of his waistcoat with his thumb, “I added my own little grain of sand.”
    “Really?” said Cesar, and Julia gave him a worried look.
    “Yes, believe it or not,” Cifuentes said, with false modesty. “A subvariant of the Caro-Kann Defence, using two knights. You know the one: knight three bishop queen. The Cifuentes variant, it’s called,” he added, looking hopefully at Cesar. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
    “Naturally,” replied Cesar with great aplomb.
    Cifuentes smiled gratefully.
    “I can assure you it would be no exaggeration to say that in this club, or recreational society, as I prefer to call it, you’ll find the best players in Madrid, and possibly in all Spain.” Then he seemed to remember something. “By the way, I’ve found the man you need.” He scanned the room, and his face lit up. “Ah, there he is. Come with me, please.”
    They followed him through one of the rooms, towards the rear.
    “It wasn’t easy,” said Cifuentes as they approached. “I’ve spent all day turning it over in my mind. But then,” he half-turned towards Cesar with an apologetic gesture, “you did ask me to recommend our best player.”
    They stopped a short distance from a table at which two men were playing, watched by half a dozen others. One of the players was softly drumming his fingers at the side of the board over which he was leaning with, thought Julia, the same serious expression Van Huys had given to the chess players in the painting. Opposite him, apparently untroubled by his opponent’s drumming, the other player sat utterly still, leaning slightly back in his wooden chair, his hands in his trouser pockets, his chin sunk on his chest. It was impossible to tell whether his eyes, fixed on the board, were concentrating on that or were absorbed on something else entirely.
    The spectators maintained a reverential silence, as if what was being decided was a matter of life and death. There were only a few pieces left on the board, so intermingled that it was impossible, at least for new arrivals, to work out who was White and who was Black. After a couple of minutes, the man drumming his fingers used the same hand to move a white bishop, placing it between his king and a black rook. Having done that, he glanced briefly at his opponent and returned to his contemplation of the board and to his gentle drumming.
    The move was accompanied by a lot of murmuring amongst the spectators. Julia went closer and saw that the other player, who hadn’t changed his posture at all when his opponent made his move, was staring intently at the intervening white bishop. He stayed like that for a while, when, with a gesture so slow it was impossible to tell until the last moment which piece he was reaching for, he moved a black knight.
    “Check,” he said and returned to his former state of immobility, indifferent to the buzz of approval that rose about him.
    Though no one said anything, Julia knew that he was the man Cifuentes had recommended to Cesar. She therefore watched him closely. He must have been just over forty, he